


shadow tag

by stringstobepulled



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringstobepulled/pseuds/stringstobepulled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Asriel will stop thinking all these weird things about Chara someday, or maybe they'll stumble their way closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadow tag

You've always been a crybaby, but that doesn't make it any better.

Today it's your pie – the last perfect slice of Mom's warm, flaky, gooey butterscotch-cinnamon pie, fresh from the oven, now a sticky, sugary smear on the floor. There's a short, messy streak where it actually _slid_ for a moment, and you find yourself thinking about the snail farm of all things before your eyes follow it back to the terrible, horrible ruins of your pie and the nasty little prickle of the terrible, horrible loss worms its way back into your stomach.

There's whipped cream and butterscotch splattered across the bottom of your jeans, threatening to wobble down into the fur on your paws. Your fingers move without you really meaning to do it, but there you are, scooping up an almost-edibly-sized glop in your claw, and you've almost got it all the way to your mouth before you can shake it back to the floor, before you can stop yourself from making it worse. It's one thing to drop your pie, and it's another thing to eat your pie off your pants. The Asriels you pretend to be sometimes, the ones you draw in your notebook at school when nobody's looking (the one with the jet-black eyes and the billowing robes, the one with the razor-sharp talons, the one with the swords and the belts and the spiky tuft of fur that hangs over his – your – eyes in the coolest way you could possibly imagine) would never, ever, _ever_ eat their pie off their pants.

Your pie. Your pants.

You feel dumb for even thinking about it, but all of a sudden your snout's twitching, all of a sudden you have to try very hard just to breathe.

It wasn't even your fault, really. You took the corner too fast, and maybe you'd heard it a million times, _dinner isn't a race_ , except of course it was a race, and of course it was a race you were about to lose if you didn't kick it up a notch, if you didn't really go for it. There you were, gasping for breath, laughing like mad, almost pulling ahead, nosing past Chara by inches – if you were going to be honest with yourself, maybe Chara's flat, nubby human snout gave them a little bit of a disadvantage, but if you were going to be honest with yourself, you could live with that. You were going to win. You were going to win, and they'd huff out their cheeks and make that sound like they couldn't even believe it, but they'd look at you like... like there was something inside of you they hadn't seen before. You felt cool, or at least, like you had it in you. You felt _good._

You felt something catch under your foot, and before you could understand why, up was down, down was up, and the floor was getting closer and closer by the moment. You pitched forward, the last perfect slice of Mom's butterscotch-cinnamon pie scrape-sliding its way off the plate, your head swirling with maybe-you-can-save-its and maybe-there's-still-times, and you threw out your arms as fast as you could, hoping–

It _splatted_ against the floor.

Chara skids ahead, giggling away at your misfortune, vaulting their body into the armchair. There's a colored pencil on the floor, a colored pencil you forgot to put away – and it _wasn't_ your fault, there's no way it could've been, but still, Chara beat you to the chair, and your pie's on the floor, and your eyes are all warm all of a sudden, and _seriously_ , you're crying already?

You won't. You can't. Someday you'll be king, and you can't grow up into the person everybody needs you to be if you cry like a baby over every stupid little thing. It's pie. It's just pie. None of the Asriels in your notebook would cry over pie on the floor, and if you keep it up, your dad will come in and scoop you up in his big, strong arms, and your mom will stroke your head and put another pie in the oven just for you, and Chara will sit there, perched in the chair like a bird, heaving and gasping like this is the funniest thing they've ever seen, and you'll hide behind your ears and die of shame.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Maybe you can save it. Maybe there's still time.

It's not like you haven't been doing your chores or anything, so the floor's probably pretty okay, as far as the floor goes – but it's still the floor, and no amount of chores could ever make the floor and your mouth something that belonged together in the same thought. But just to be sure, because maybe, _maybe_ , you peel back the crust, sniffling hopefully.

You see grit, loose fur, some mysterious little dark flecks. Even if you could scrape away the grit, you couldn't forget about it. You couldn't eat _dirt_ – and it wasn't your fault, even, it wasn't. You just wanted to get to the chair before Chara, and the both of you needed to get to the chair before Dad – maybe together, you could claim the chair for yourselves – and it wasn't your fault, and you were in this together, really, and it wasn't your fault, and you definitely weren't trying to show them up or impress them or anything, and it wasn't your fault, and it wasn't _fair_...

There's another giggle from above. Chara's smiling down at you, and you're warm and happy and twisted up in knots inside before you remember that yeah, they're laughing at you.

“It's just, your _face..._ ” they choke out between gasps.

“It's not funny, okay? I really wanted that!”

Your eyes land on Chara's pie, whole on their plate apart from a tiny nibble off the corner. They must have been so busy laughing at you that they didn't have the time to start eating yet. _Maybe_ , you think. You scoot a little closer.

“Hey, you wanna share yours?” you ask, like it's the best idea anybody's ever had. “It's a big slice, and it's not like either of us can still be that hungry after–”

“No,” they tell you, and you can't quite see their eyes underneath their shaggy human forehead-fur, but you could swear they're doing that thing where they roll them up into their head as far as they can go.

“But we just had lunch!”

Chara used to get weird when they were hungry – you've seen them stuff dinner in their pockets and wolf it down the moment your parents were gone, almost like they thought you'd try to take it from them. You cried then, too, because it meant they didn't trust you, and even then, as soon as you noticed the absence of Chara's trust, the hole where it could've been, you wanted it more than you ever wanted anything else in your life. You asked your mom about it, once, and she got that look she gets when she doesn't think you're old enough to know about something or maybe just doesn't know how to say it to you in a way she thinks you'll understand, and she sat you down and said: _My child... Chara must have been very hungry before they came here_.

If you didn't quite understand it, if you didn't quite want to understand it, if maybe you got this sick, horrible thought like maybe humans didn't have a king who made sure everybody got enough to eat even when times were tough (if maybe you never really thought about what would happen if somebody didn't get dinner and didn't get breakfast the morning after and it could go on like that, on and on and on forever, if maybe there was a hunger and a bigger hunger after that, if a person who didn't eat could get smaller and smaller until there wasn't anything left, if it would ever stop hurting) and you didn't want to think about it anymore because how could anyone do that to someone you – even then, you knew Mom had to be right, just because of the way she said it.

But Chara's not so weird about food anymore. Last year, they wouldn't have still had most of a slice of pie on their plate, or really anything at all except for crumbs. And Chara can't be hungry, because you just had lunch.

“We just had lunch,” you say again. “And we'll have dinner tonight... so why not? You're not gonna miss it! It's a huge slice of pie!”

“No.”  
  
“I don't want _all_ of it!” you say, because really, it's a pretty good point to make, a point that's worn down Dad more times than you can count.  
  
“No.”

They kick their leg against the armrest, staring past you. They don't really sound annoyed, exactly – you know what it's like when they're upset, and it's nothing like this. Maybe it doesn't even bother them, but they're not about to budge. Like that's the point, even, and a part of you gets it... but a much, much bigger part of you wants some butterscotch-cinnamon pie.

“I don't even want most of it! If you want to give me the side with the bite missing, that's fine! I don't care!”

And okay, maybe you do care a little. Maybe it would be a little weird to have your mouth where Chara's mouth had been, when you think about it. A little _something_ , at least. Maybe Chara's mouth and your mouth don't belong in the same sentence, either – it's just too much in a way that's too embarrassing to name, even though you're a big kid now and you have the right to think about Chara's mouth as much as you want to, if, y'know, for some inexplicable reason you'd get something out of that.

You've told yourself it would probably be better if you tried not to do that so much anymore.

But it's not like it's the _floor_ , at least. If you absolutely _had_ to eat that side of the pie, it would be–

“No.”  
  
“Why not?” you whine.

“You dropped it. That's not my problem.”  
  
“But you–”

“You want it that much, you can pick it up and eat it.”  
  
“But you can't eat food that fell on the floor!”

They shrug.

“You can't!” you almost shout, and the tears are really coming this time, wet and hot and horrible.

“Can if you want it bad enough.”  
  
“No! Y-you can't! That's _stupid!_ ”  
  
You _can't_ eat floor pie. Everyone knows you can't eat floor pie, and Chara's just...

They're just...

They walk right past you until they're crouching over the floor pie, picking it up with their hands and glopping it onto their plate.

“More for me.”  
  
“Fine!” you cry out, as they disappear down the hall, ill-gotten treasures in hand. “Go ahead and eat dirt, then! I'm not going to stop you!”

If they wanted to be mean to you, they should've just done it. You don't know what to make of it when they act like they don't even care.

 

 

 

Except maybe that isn't how it works, or maybe it's only how it works when somebody's too far away instead of too close, or maybe it's only how it works with Chara, but the rock girl's gripping the end of your sleeve, and you'd rather be anywhere, anywhere else.

She towers above you, creaking as her joints scrape together. It sounds like gravel when she breathes. It smells like dust. You've seen her around school a few times, before she started going to school with the older kids, or, for all you know, stopped going. She seems like the kind of bad kid who drops out of school, but you're going to be everybody's king someday, so you shouldn't assume.

Ora, you think her name is. Maybe Oria. You've never really talked to her before today. Maybe you should've – Dad would say something about how anybody could become a friend if you try. Maybe it's a good thing you didn't – Mom would say something about how most people could become a friend, but you need to be careful just in case.

The shopkeeper's gone to the backroom to fetch your centipede gumdrops, and Ora-or-Oria is pulling at your sweater so hard the coins in your pocket clink together, and this was supposed to be fun, wasn't it? This was supposed to make you feel better. Dad saw you crying over the pie, and you let him think that was all there was to it (and even if there _was_ something else, for some reason, and even if you wanted to explain, for some reason, where would you even start?), and he gave you some money for the candy store so you'd smile again. And Mom fussed about whether it was really a good idea for you to go into the city alone – even though you've been allowed to go into the city alone for a whole year now – and eventually they agreed that you could go as long as you took Chara along.

(There's a ripping sound, and the hole in your sleeve gapes wider. Mom knitted this sweater for you, dots and diamonds in two-years-ago's favorite colors, and you've just barely gotten big enough to properly fill it out.)

“I'll feel better,” Mom told you, “with the two of you watching out for each other. Be good to your silly old mother, won't you?”  
  
“Why, Chara could use the fresh air,” Dad said, “couldn't they? It's good to get out every once in a while. See the sights, strike up a conversation. We're good people here.”  
  
He doesn't say, _they might need that_ , but he doesn't have to.

You didn't _really_ take Chara along, of course. One: if you asked, they'd probably make that face again and say no and no and no until you got the hint and went away. Two: in order to take Chara, you would've had to find Chara, and even though you're both supposed to ask before you go anywhere, they definitely weren't in the house – and you checked every room, twice. They'd taken their floor pie and went off to do Chara things, you supposed, wherever they went when they didn't want you to come along.

But if Chara wasn't there, then Chara could've been anywhere, including, plausibly, with you. Mom and Dad didn't have to know. You thought, _I could use the fresh air, too._

“We're going now!” you called out, throwing the door shut behind you. “Bye!”  
  
You could hear their voices through the window, Dad telling you to have fun, Mom telling you to be safe.

If you'd taken Chara along, would anything be different? Would Ora-or-Oria still be messing with you, if you hadn't been alone? Would Chara be sticking up for you, if she was? Or would it be exactly the same, just with Chara in the background, staring away at something more interesting than you?  
  
You try not to tremble. You wonder if anyone's ever gotten so scared they fell down, or maybe peed their pants.

You need to be strong.

“You have to take care of everybody, don't you? Because you're the prince.”

It's more of a growl than a question. She's huge, and she's terrifying, and you try to back away from her until you feel your tail press against the edge of the counter.

You need to be strong, because you're the prince. Because you're going to be king someday, and everyone needs you, and how can you be stronger tomorrow if you're a stupid little baby now?

How can you even pretend to be somebody cool? How can you even think about robes and swords and talons if the real you just gives up and cries? How can those other Asriels even be you, if they have nothing to do with you at all?

“It's, uh... kinda like that, I guess?” you squeak, and then, forcing out the words: “Except it's kinda, um. Not really like that at all.”  
  
“You have to,” she repeats. “'Cause you have to be nice, right? No matter what, no matter if they even deserve it, you have to be _nice._ ”

You're good people here in New Home. Your dad invites the neighbors over for tea. Your mom bakes extra most days and brings it down to the city to help make sure everybody can have dinner. Vivaldi, the skeleton who sits next to you in class, always lends you her pencil case even when you know she thinks you're a little bit stupid for always forgetting. The dragon brothers who live down the way let you keep score when they play tennis, even though they'd probably do a better job of remembering on their own. Your teacher always has something nice to say about your work. The candy store owner always gives you a little bit extra. They're good people. They're nice people.

Of course you have to be nice, even when you wonder what it would be like to just...

(To just what? To just let go and do whatever you want?)

“What do you want?” you ask.

“Seaweed taffy,” she croaks, pointing behind the counter, her fingers creaking and scraping and groaning, her voice gravel and dust. “I know you've got the gold.”

A part of you outside yourself wants to laugh. Now that you know what she is, now that you know what this is, it's smaller, somehow. Almost funny. You know what a bully is – everybody knows what a bully is. Everybody knows how to stand up to a bully. The Asriels in your notebook fight wars, raze cities, save the world, destroy the world...

Why are you scared? Why aren't you laughing?

“But it's for me,” you tell her. “My dad–”

“You're never going to worry about money. You're never going to worry about anything. It's fine for you down here. Everything's fine for you. Because you're the prince.”

“I'll tell my parents!”

Your eyes burn.

“Who cares? They're not going to do anything.”

“I'll tell everybody!”

Your voice cracks. You're squeaking again.

“So?”

And you cry your stupid eyes out, right then, right there. You buy her stupid taffy when the shopkeeper comes back, and they give you an extra stupid piece because you're crying like a stupid little kid, and you chuck the bag at her stupid face, and you're about to storm your way out the door when she shoves the bag back. You don't catch it. You can't do anything except stare at her, eyes burning, because this isn't how it's supposed to go.

“You didn't even try to hit me,” she groans, and you're not quite sure what comes out of your mouth, but it's got nothing to do with actual words. “If you're going to be in charge, then we're never getting out.”

You stumble out the door and run back home as fast as you possibly can, and they're looking at you, everybody's looking at you, and you cover your face and try to stop crying, but something's wrong with you, isn't it? Something's wrong with your stupid face, your stupid eyes, and you hiccup and bleat and they're _staring_ , and you cover your face and hold your breath but you can't stop crying, you cry and hiccup and bleat like an idiot.

She didn't even want your money. Whatever she wanted, you failed, and you're supposed to be the prince, aren't you? You're supposed to be stronger than this, you're supposed to be like somebody you'd actually want to be, but here you are: small, weak, less than you should be, and if you fell down right now, right this moment, well... wouldn't it be a bit little okay?

Mom and Dad are in the garden, all stupid and lovey-dovey (and what did you expect, for anyone to think about you like that? For anyone to hold your hands and wipe away your tears and make it better?) so you can head straight to your room, straight to your bed, straight under your covers. You bury your face in the pillow. You pull the stuffed animals under the blanket with you, and cry into your favorite one's belly. Maybe this is your life now. Maybe you'll just stay here forever, in this pillow, under this–

You don't realize you're being prodded until the blanket's pulling away from your body and you're fighting to keep from rolling off the bed.

“H-hey, stop!” you cry out. “I don't... I d- _don't_...”

Oh.

Chara stares back at you, through you, and their mouth is still curled in the same little smile as always, but their eyes are like a pair of black holes.

“You're crying.”

“ _No!_ ” you protest, and that's stupid. You're _stupid_. Of course you're crying. There's never been anything more obvious than the way you're still shaking, than the way you can't even talk right, than the stupid wet patches in the fur below your eyes. You just... don't want them to laugh at you, maybe. You don't want them to laugh at you, that's all. If they laugh at you, if they look at you and laugh again, then it'll be...

They're not gonna hold your hands and wipe away your tears and make it better, but if they look at you and _laugh..._

“Who did this,” they whisper.

“N-nobody! Nothing _happened!_ ”

“Who did this?” Their tiny, bony fists clutch the blanket tighter, and you hear something give, something rip. “Who did this?”

“Be quiet, o-okay? M-mom and Dad are gonna hear!”

“Then tell me.”

“No!”

They lunge, and before you can dive out of the way, they've ripped the stuffed toy from your hands.  
  
“Tell me, or I'll rip its head off.”

“ _Fine!_ ” you moan, and flop back on the bed. You don't have a choice, so... it's okay, isn't it? It's not like they'll let you keep your dignity. “Ora. Or O-oria. She... m-made me give her my money, and... and she didn't really want my money, and she yelled at me for not hitting her, and...”

And how do you explain something you don't even understand?

Maybe there's still time to bury yourself in the sheets? Maybe there's still time to struggle further underneath the pillow?

“I'll take care of it,” they say, and when you let out a croak like a _huh_ , they say it again: “Don't worry about it anymore. I'll take care of it.”

The bed creaks, shifts, and when you open your eyes, you see they've settled their weight at the very corner. They don't move to touch you. You don't know why you think they would. There's a bounce like they're kicking their legs against the bed frame, and you can't see their eyes anymore, but they look like they're staring at the pictures on the wall. Your drawings. They're not even the really embarrassing ones, but you wonder if they think any less of you for it. You wonder if you should take them down.

But they're here, aren't they? You're bawling your eyes out like a stupid baby, and still, they're here, with you.

And that's something, isn't it?

Doesn't that have to be something?

 

 

 

You go to school the next day like everything's normal, of course. The weekend's over, and it's a school day, and when it's a school day, you go to school. Maybe you could stay home if you really wanted to. Chara told you it might be better if you did, but since you're pretty much the worst at faking sick, staying home would involve telling everybody _why_ you shouldn't have to go to school today. It's easier to walk to school with the others than to explain what happened to Mom and Dad and your friends and everybody. It's easier to pretend to be better and stronger than to make yourself even more pathetic than you already are, and if you try your best to convince your friends to take the long way past the big kids' school just this once, and if you hold your breath when you see a cluster of kids in the same school uniform Ora-or-Oria might wear, then nobody has to know, right? Nobody has to care.

It's gotta be better than explaining.  
  
It'll be–

You blink. Was it your imagination? Is there some other kid in the crowd with a green and yellow sweater, just like Chara's? Or...

“Hey, is that the human who lives with you now?” Nautilus asks, nudging your side with one of her tentacles.

“Uh,” you answer.

“Maybe it's a different human,” squawks Fletch. “Asriel hangs out with them like, literally all the time, so...”

“There's only one human in New Home, dummy!” Delphi growls, swiping at Fletch with her massive paw, but he flaps away in the nick of time, and when he settles himself back to the ground, he's no worse for the wear. She probably wasn't even trying, not really.

“My brother says they're supposed to get married,” he chirps, ruffling his feathers. “'Cause like, diplomacy or something.”

“What,” you hear yourself say.

“Well, are you?” Delphi asks.

“No! That's stupid!” and you hope as hard as you can hope that you didn't shriek loud enough for Chara to hear you.

“Can I marry the human, then?” Fletch asks, a hopeful look on his beak.  
  
“ _No!_ ” you cry out, the question of volume forgotten. “What's _wrong_ with you?”

“I just think, like, that maybe it might be kinda fun to live on the surface,” he says. “That's all.”

A murmur spreads through the group.

“I wouldn't want to live on the surface,” says Nautilus.

“Why not?” Fletch grumbles.

“'Don't you think humans are a little, um... scary?” she gurgles, tangling in on herself.  
  
“Are they?” asks Delphi. “I mean, I used to think that, too, but Asriel's human isn't scary. They're just... weird-looking.”

“Chara isn't weird-looking,” you mutter.

“ _I_ think they're weird-looking!” Delphi growls. “I can think they're weird-looking if I want!”

“But they're _not_ ,” you groan.

“Hey, Asriel?” asks Nautilus.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Why doesn't the human go to school?”  
  
It's just... Mom doesn't think they're ready or something. You don't entirely get how anyone's ever really _ready_ for school, or how it's fair that you have to go and they don't – but the fact remains that Chara's supposed to be sitting at the kitchen table with their workbook, not wandering the streets of New Home on a school day. If that was them, then something's wrong. If that was them, then Mom's probably worried sick. You think about calling out their name, but...

It sticks in your throat. It's not like you don't like your school friends or anything, but there's a reason Chara avoids them. They'd swarm around, ask a bunch of stupid questions about school and why they look weird and _marriage_ , of all things, and Chara might think that you had something to do with it, that you somehow approved of it, that you somehow gave permission, and you find yourself wondering if there's a difference between someone you're friends with because you go to school together and their mom works with your dad or something, and someone you're friends with because you want to be. If anybody would ever really want to be the second kind of friends with you. If Chara...

What would it feel like, that second kind of friendship? Hands clasped tight, hearts beating together... You could press your mouth against theirs and feel them pressing back, just to promise you'd feel this way forever. It wouldn't make you a bad friend. It wouldn't mean you wanted anything weird. You told yourself you were going to stop thinking about that stuff, but–

You find yourself wondering why you didn't notice the way Chara's walking like they're on a mission.

“Hey, I just, uh... I just remembered!” you lie. “That I... left my homework in my room! Whoops! Catch up to you later, guys!”

You wave. They believe you. It's easier than you thought it would be.

Then you slip through the crowd once they're gone, following the flash of green and yellow, weaving left-right-left-straight-left-right through the maze of streets.

They turn a corner ahead of you, and you struggle after, breathing hard–

“Hey, watch it, kid!”

It's Ora. Oria. The rock girl. _Her._

You duck behind the wall again, peeking out just a little from behind the bricks. Maybe... maybe nothing's going to happen. If something happens to Chara, you'll do something. You'll definitely do something. You'll help them. But now, maybe it's better if... if you don't...

Your knees shake. You're terrified.

“Aren't you going to say you're sorry?”

Maybe if you had a stick or something, you could wave it around and frighten her off. You're smaller, _squishier_ , but if you looked like you meant business, if you got a little scarier, then maybe...

“Aren't you going to say, uh. Anything?”

You scan the alley. There's nothing like a stick, but your eyes catch on a broken bottle somebody dropped by the dumpster. You feel like waving around a bottle has to be a bit much, like something you'd do in the movies if you were some two-bit tough guy on the hunt for a fight – even picking it up feels like something someone like you couldn't possibly do, but...

A better you could do it, right? A stronger you. This is what it feels like, this is what it has to feel like, to pick up a sword and fight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

You grit your teeth. If it's for Chara...

The rock girl bellows.

You grip the bottle, trying not to think about how stupid you're about to look, and force yourself around the corner, force yourself to remember why you're doing this, to be cool, strong, the way you draw yourself in your notebook, the way you've drawn yourself together with Chara, to think it again and again and again until it blocks out the fear, blocks out the in-over-your-heads, blocks out everything because Chara needs you, Chara needs you, Chara needs you Chara needs you Charaneedsyou...

She screams again, pulling Chara down on top of her chest while she –

No.

Wait.

If you look again, if you turn your head, if you forget about everything you thought you knew about the world, then Chara's pushing her. Chara's pushing her down and winding up a punch, and wait, _no_ , that's a _brick_ in their fist, they're winding up to bash her with a goddamn brick, and you're asking yourself where they even got a brick, as if that's the most important question here.

You're standing there waving around a bottle like an idiot, and they brought a goddamn brick, and you're scared, still, fur standing on end, knees shaking... but it's the good kind of scared, because it's them.

They smash against the place her ribs would be, and you feel the _crack_ in your bones. They wind up again. They dig their fingers into the space between her joints. She bellows again – no, she's screaming.

You can't watch. You can't look away. She's bigger than Chara, stronger than Chara, and still, Chara's... They must have meant to. They must have planned it. They–

Another crack.

Chara's doing this for you.

Chara is the coolest person you've ever met in your life, the coolest person you've ever even heard of, and they're doing this for _you._

Finally, she stays down. Finally, it's over. It's not like she didn't deserve it, and it's not like you're not glad to see it happen, and it's not like you're – you're relieved, really. You saw Chara and the rock girl and you thought – you thought they'd...

You're just glad you don't have to hear that crunching sound anymore.

“W...what the...”

“Shut up,” they spit, and kick her.

“What... d-did I ever do to you? I've never even... n-never even met you before!”  
  
“You didn't do it to _me_ ,” they say, and there's a difference between thinking _maybe_ and hearing it straight from Chara's mouth, and you gasp and Chara turns around and grins so wide you can see every one of their teeth.

You feel yourself smile back. You wonder if you're smiling the same.

“Hey, Asriel,” they call across the alley. “You like it?”  
  
And you don't know what to say, because it's not about liking it, it's got nothing to do with _liking_ it, it's just... it's just what's _fair_ , it's just what's _right_ , and she'll never make you feel small and scared and less than you should be again, will she? She deserves it. She deserves to feel the way you felt. She'll be okay, but for now, she deserves it, and she'll never... she'll never make anybody feel that way again, because now she knows what it's like, doesn't she, and you're okay, and Chara's... and they don't even seem to notice the blood trickling down their split lip and she hurt them too, didn't she, and they did it for you, they did it for _you._

And you don't need to say it, because you feel yourself nod.

“Good,” they giggle, still smiling at you, one sneaker planted firmly on the rock girl's back, and – and gosh, your face is _warm_ , your eyes are blurry, your chest is full of butterflies and you can feel your heart pounding and you don't want to be the one who looks away first, but your face is burning up and you have to, you have to.

You always feel weird around Chara – this hot sort of firework weirdness, this pressure like you're about to explode.

You walk around with stars in your eyes for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

It can't last, of course, but while it _does_...

 

 

 

Dad's talking to Chara in the room you share – _talking to Chara_ talking to Chara, talking to Chara about the call that came in from the parents of a girl named Ouryia, about how Chara put another kid in the hospital today, and you're not supposed to be eavesdropping since it's a private conversation between Chara and your dad, but here you are anyway, listening in, your ear pulled back, your head pressed against the door. Mom's gone to the hospital to see if there's anything she can do, and you pray it'll take long enough that she won't come back and find you.

You're supposed to be doing your homework. You're supposed to be sweeping the floor.

“Is she dead?” Chara asks.

“No,” Dad tells them, his voice deep and booming, even through the door. “ _No_ , child. Please do not worry. There is nothing you have done today that cannot be fixed. But if you continue to pick fights with the other children, then someday... something regrettable will happen, to you, or to another. Do you understand?”

It's quiet. Dad's probably taking a sip of his tea. This is usually the part where you talk about what you did and why you did it and how you'll never, ever do it again, but Chara doesn't know the dance as well as you do, even after a year of having to do it, and after a couple seconds of silence, your dad has to cut in:

“What on earth possessed you to fight that girl?”  
  
“She was a bully,” Chara says.

“Did she harm you?”

Chara's quiet.

“Did she harm someone else?”  
  
“She tried to hurt me,” Chara mumbles. “Said it was... my fault everybody's stuck underground now.”

There's another little explosion inside your chest.  
  
“Ah,” Dad says, and you can hear the relief in his voice. “I understand why you felt you had to fight her. But next time, if you simply come to me, then I'll do whatever I can to resolve the problem with the other child's parents, and no one will have to be hurt. Will you do that?”  
  
“Yes, Asgore,” they say.

“And no more fighting?”  
  
“Yes, Asgore.”  
  
“You know, child, if you would like to call me 'Dad'...”  
  
Your stomach sinks. They can't. They _can't._ If they do, then...

They just can't, and that's all there is to it.

“Yes, Asgore,” they say, and everything's right with the world again.

“...Well, if that is what makes you comfortable, then 'Asgore' will do just fine.”

As long as Chara keeps calling your dad by his name, then it'll be okay. It'll be...

You're a weirdo, you know. You're sick.

They went out of their way to protect you, they walked into danger for you, they busted their lip, defending _you_ , and this is how you repay them?

They're not going to like this. You _know_ they're not going to like this. They're not going to like _you._ They'll hate you. Who wouldn't hate you? Everyone's going to hate you. And they'll never let you hug them again, and they'll never let you talk to them again, and they'll never even want to see you again, and they'll never, they'll never–

They'll never like you the way you like them.

You're breathing funny and your knees feel weak and you gasp out an _oh no_ and slide down against the wall, and great, just _great_ , you're crying again.

Do you ever even stop?

You're quiet about it this time, at least. You don't make a scene. You don't bleat. You walk, and walk, and walk until you find yourself in the great hall, and you curl up behind a pillar, fish your colored pencils out of your bag, prop your notebook on your lap, and draw all your favorite Asriels being cool, strong, the kind of people who'd do whatever they wanted with their swords and their talons and their magic, even if it wasn't _nice_...

There you are. That's you, Asriel Dreemurr, ripping anyone who'll hurt you to dust.

You forget just long enough to draw them in at your side, grinning, brick clutched tight in their fist, the two of you tearing down the world together. Except you're not going to do that so much anymore, really. You promise. You scribble them out of the picture, just to seal the deal – except it isn't enough, is it? You can see the shape of their smile. You can still tell it's Chara.

Would the Asriels you draw get lonely? You thought they'd be above that kind of thing – you wish you were above that kind of thing – but you can't imagine a you who wouldn't think about them this way. You can't imagine separating this feeling from yourself. You picture every Asriel with their own Chara – Charas with magic and fire and blades and sharp teeth and wicked eyes, an army of smiling Charas standing alongside their matching Asriels, each one somehow thinking their Asriel is special enough that they'd hurt people for you, that they'd make you shiver... but not one of them would look at you like someone they wanted to kiss.

You stay like that, notebook on the floor, head tucked against your knee so you don't have to see it, until smooth, warm hands cover your eyes and you jerk upright and somebody's laughing.

“Guess who,” says Chara.

“Nobody else sounds like you,” you groan, trying not to think about how touching your face means they _know_ , trying not to think about how touching your face means they're touching your face.

“Didn't sound like 'Chara',” they say. “So I win.”

“Huh? Wait, that's not...”

 _That's not fair_ , but they're bending over your notebook, and whatever you wanted to say can't have been nearly as important as stopping them from seeing what you've done.

“Don't look at that! It's boring!”

“That's me,” they murmur.

“No! It's not! It's nobody!”

But they pick up the notebook before you can properly kick it away.

“We're the same, huh?” they say, like it's kind of funny, almost, and you don't know what they mean or how you're the same or why something's gone a little bit cold in their voice.

You crossed them out. You crossed them out, and they'll think...

“I... tried to draw you too,” you blurt out. “But it wasn't any good.”

Chara looks at you, eyes wide, and reaches for your box of pencils. You look over their shoulder as they take your notebook and draw... something or other. It's a slow, deliberate scribble in your brightest shade of red, and it doesn't look like anything in particular, but based on the way they hold the pencil, based on the way they chew at the scabbed-over place on their lip, there's a purpose behind it, you're sure.

Finally, they tilt it up so you can see it. Whatever it is, they seem to be satisfied enough.

“It's us,” they say, and now that you know what to look for, you see something that almost looks like Chara's smile, something that almost looks like Chara's hand, circled around a pretty faithful depiction of that knife they used to have before Mom took it away.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “That's us.”

There wasn't a lot of room on the paper, especially with the scribble. It's probably not that they _meant_ to draw their other hand overlapping yours, but still, you decide here and now that you'll save this picture for the rest of your life.

Then they're close again, poking at the fur underneath your eye. You topple back. They lean in closer.

“You were crying again,” Chara says.

You nod, because what's the point in lying now that everything's fine?

“Who needs to go to the hospital this time?” they joke, and you can hear the smile in their voice even with your eyes shut tight.

“Nobody did it,” you choke out. “It was just...”  
  
_You_ , you think.

“...It was just me. It's my own stupid fault.”

“Well,” they say. “I don't know what to do about that.”

They smack their hand against the back of your head – the way friends hit each other sometimes, just kidding – and giggling, they lean against the pillar to the left of you, flipping through the pages of your notebook, drawing in bright red scribble Charas next to every Asriel you've ever drawn, just too far away to touch.


End file.
